


A Promise of Blue

by GingerSpirit667



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:34:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerSpirit667/pseuds/GingerSpirit667
Summary: Geralt shrugged it to the back of his mind. He had a soulmate somewhere, but his training seemed the much bigger and more present obstacle in his path. A witcher in training could not afford distractions.And yet, on the nights that were particularly cold and long. The nights when either his own injuries kept him awake or those of one of his brothers, Geralt would gently turn over the fact in his mind. He had a soulmate.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 41
Kudos: 396





	1. Chapter 1

Everyone has heard the tales of how when humans were first created by the gods they took a piece of clay and broke it into two pieces to make a bonded pair of humans. The myth of the soulmates. There was someone out in the world who was the perfect match to you, just waiting for you to find them. A gift from the gods. An example of their merciful love. Folklore and novels are filled to the brim with the stories of soulmates meeting throughout the ages in desperate romantic legends. How from the second you are born the color of your soulmate’s eyes is the only bright spot in a sea of grey. You go through your life, varied shades of grey with only the spark lighting the way to your destined one. Then one day, fated in the stars according to the stories, you would feel the pull towards some random stranger with color sparkling in their eyes. Time freezes in that magic moment of first touch when the world of grey melts away as you are reunited with the other half of your soul in a magic breathtaking moment. 

At least. . . that’s how the stories and legends always painted it. 

A life of a witcher never left much room for fairytales. 

Geralt was five years old when he finally asked Vesemir about the brilliant color of the sky. A gentle smile and a small book were provided to answer the question, but nothing more. Not a lecture about dangers or advantages that were constantly being discussed as each new kind of monster was described to a child. Not a detailed tome of magical practices. Not an hours long practice round with his blades in the courtyard. A small smile and a meaningless child’s book. His question had not been dismissed, but it was also clearly not something of value. Not something a witcher should pay much attention to. And so Geralt shrugged it to the back of his mind. He had a soulmate somewhere, but his training seemed the much bigger and more present obstacle in his path. A witcher in training could not afford distractions. 

And yet, on the nights that were particularly cold and long. The nights when either his own injuries kept him awake or those of one of his brothers, Geralt would gently turn over the fact in his mind. He had a soulmate. Someone somewhere out there was meant for him. Once he completed this training he would go out into that world. And yes, he would be looking for monsters to kill and protect humanity, but he could also keep an eye out for that special individual with blue in their eyes. 

Geralt is 17 when he feels as if his very being is being torn apart. No amount of reading. No amount of hours in the yard with a sword in his hand could have prepared him for this. This burning, scorching, all encompassing, blinding, consuming. Slowly every part of him was touched. Every aspect of his being was being scraped out of him by branding rod. Every thought every belief pulled away into nothingness. This could not continue. There would be nothing left. A shell where Geralt had been. Burning. Floating. Disappearing. Geralt had never seen the colors of a typical fire. A flickering warmth called red and orange he was told. But he had seen the deep flickering blue of the fire of a blacksmith’s forge. A heat one could feel from meters away. But he wasn’t meters away. The heat of a blue flame was inside him consuming him from the inside out. And he could not endure. He could NOT. The promised blue of his soulmate the very thing that was tearing him to pieces, melting him into ash. 

But blue was not only the heat of a flame. Blue was the gentle brush of warmth as the sky shone down on the earth without a cloud in sight to block the color as he sat reading a book beside Vesemir. Blue was a cool splash of water from Eskel from a barrel after a long sparring match. Blue was his family, a common spark connected throughout his memories. But above all else, blue was a promise. A promise of better days. A promise that someone out there would be for him. Blue was hope and love and dreams. Slowly the fire of blue receded from Geralt’s bones as he clung to the blue he wanted to believe in. 

Geralt is 19 when he straps his bags on his new mare for the first time. The world is full of white melting into lighter greys as the grass and plants begin to slowly break through the snow of the mountain. The sky a stunning blue to match as Geralt rides out, the promise of warmth, and adventure, and possibility just waiting for him to find. He had survived not only the Trial of the Grasses, but even greater tests. The shining promise of blue guiding him throughout the pain, even as his hair bleached from its familiar dark grey almost black to a pure white. He endured and overcame and now he was being sent into the world for the first time. He had studied and trained all with that one promise is his mind. Now he could finally head out and see about finding it. Finding the blue eyes that guided him and comforted him without any knowledge of the person behind them, but he couldn’t wait to meet them. 

He isn’t even a few days from the castle when he stumbles upon the scene. A young girl struggling and kicking with a high wail as she is pulled by two dirty men away from the shining carriage. Dark shadows of dirt, hunger, and sleeplessness shadow the faces of the men holding the girl. A darkness to the lightness of her skin and hair. A quick squeeze of his legs and a toss of Roach’s head and he is off sprinting across the snowy field towards the commotion. Vesemir’s voice rings lowly in his mind lecturing about human affairs and what a witcher should involve himself in, but it is easily drowned out by the thud of Roach’s hooves on the barely thawed ground. A witcher was made to defeat monsters and these men clearly fit the description.

Geralt’s commitment to his involvement is only strengthened when he is close enough the make out more of the scene. The men are rough and hungry but not starving. They live off the land preying on the weak, but it is of their own volition not starvation that drives them to this. The sharp smell of attraction flowing on the breeze from the men, coupled by the sharp smell of the girl’s fear further cements Geralt’s opinion. Finally the thud of Roach’s hooves must become apparent to the people below as two sets of dark eyes dart up towards the rapidly approaching witcher as well as two blue. The promise of blue in a girl’s eyes. 

A sharp kick to one as he leaps off of Roach’s back and the swift uppercut of a sword to the other. One last swing down towards the man on the ground and in three moves, two strikes of his blade, the fight is over. A draw. A pull. As promised. Geralt turns to the young girl. Heart beating faster than it ever has since the trials. His promise that had gotten him through all those years in the cold mountains. His promise that had beaten back the fire of the trials and it could be fulfilled right here right now. 

His new eyes, sharpened by the trials, turned into a lighter shade of grey than before but still only grey to him dart up to meet the blue of the girl. The smell of fear instead of fading seems to only grow until the entire air burns with the acrid scent. There was no shining moment. The pull seemed to disappear as soon as it appeared. The girl’s face twisted not into a smile but into a full out scream as she scrabbled back from her savior. A splash of dark blood stains the light of her face with a dark shadow. Blue eyes that he had dreamed and hoped for stared at him not with the promised love but with fear and revulsion. One single word left her lips and with it Geralt’s promise, his dream shattered. 

“Monster”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . I actually haven't written anything creatively in over 8 years now. I haven't published anything in over 12. I'm not completely happy with this finished product and I will probably come back and rewrite at some point, but I have to get this published before I lose my nerve. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and any comments or kudods would be a great help in getting the rest of this written


	2. Chapter 2

The coins clinked lightly in the leather pouch the ealdorman held stiffly out to the witcher in front of him. The small hut was filled with the scent of fear mixing with the fading smell of dried blood which permanently wafted from his armor. The kikimore was dead and the man continued to stink of fear. Geralt’s nose barely registered the continued smell. Every ealdorman. Every lord. Every lady. Every merchant. Every villager. Every child. Every fucking person he came across smelled of the same acrid smell. Occasionally someone would have the stink of anger or hatred as a nice addition to the ever present smell of fear, but Geralt did not truly consider that a more positive outcome. With a small tilt to his head, Geralt grabbed the pouch and ducked from the dark greys of the small hut into the brighter world outside. 

The lighter greys of the cobblestones lining the path shone bright with the darker greys of the wooden buildings lining the thoroughfare. Above all of it, the warm light blue of the sky smiled down on the villagers going about their days. With his appearance, into the bright light of the day, only one head turned towards him in positive greeting. Ever faithful Roach glanced up and began moving towards him with a gentle stride. 

“Come along, girl” the large man murmured gently to the young mare. His one travel companion. His one listener. Often he found himself talking only to her. Even now in a town center she was the only one to listen. A gentle toss of her head was all the confirmation the witcher needed before he swung with a practiced move into the saddle. The pair headed away from the large hut of the ealdorman, its shadow casting a larger dark spot across the street than any of the other buildings around. 

Moving once more into the street and once more Geralt was hit with the life of a witcher among humans. The looks of absolute horror so poorly disguised would be hilarious were they not being directed at him. A loud gasp that is quickly stifled as if a Witcher would miss the sound. The side eye as they darted quickly across the street lest they be seen anywhere in proximity to the mounted killer. Like an oncoming wave that could not be stopped, the acrid bitter tang of fear, his constant companion, rolled over the gentle earthy tones of the nearby farmland and even over the stronger stench of any human settlement. An absolute humorous dumpster fire if it wasn’t centered around him. The response of all humans to meeting a monster. A constant reminder of the horror of his existence. Each look a new stone in the towering wall between himself and humanity. He was needed but not welcomed nor wanted. A necessary evil. 

Slowly yet with a purpose Roach made her way onto the main road, villagers parting rapidly for them. At a crossroads, the pair stopped in the middle of the way for a moment. The pocket of empty air around them never shrank as villagers went out of their way to stay far from the horse and her rider, despite their inconvenient placement. The road out of town opened to the left. Freedom from hateful glances. Freedom from the smell of fear that seemed to be permanently burned into his nose. Out in the woods with only Roach for company, his monstrosity could be pushed to the back of his mind. There was no one there to stare or run in fright or even cross the street to not pass too closely to him. 

To the right, the road led deeper into town. Deeper into the cold waves of hatred and fear. The monster was dead. He had his money. He was supposed to be on his way. Yet . . . the empty space in his packs told a different story. He was in need of supplies desperately, and so he turned Roach to the right. Away from the freedom of the open road the two of them trudged deeper into town. 

_____________________________________

The tavern was the largest building in the small town, looming even slightly larger than the ealdorman’s house where Geralt had first stopped. Despite the small size of the town, its position along one of the major travel routes, meant the tavern even boasted a few rooms for rent above the main floor. The quick stop by the herbalist had lightened his purse, but not to a considerable degree as the man had been interested in some of Geralt’s own supplies. There was only one last stop before heading out of town. A quick lunch would be the perfect break from the typical on the road food. If he sat in the corner, maybe some of the villagers wouldn’t even notice the witcher leading to a peaceful meal. 

The stench of old dried sour ale. The heat of many human bodies in a small space. The sudden darkness compared to the bright sunlight from outside. The common traits of any tavern throughout the kingdoms. This one was slightly dirtier than some Geralt had been in, but not the dirtiest. A quick hush fell over the few patrons within the large room, but no one made an overt moves to throw the witcher from the establishment, so Geralt was going to take it as a win. A small nod towards the woman behind the bar and she began bustling about grabbing a plate and cup while the large man made his way towards the table against the far wall. 

Slight shadows around the table. Clear vantage points on both the front entrance and the back. A wall to place his back against. Perfect. The large witcher slowly lowered himself into the seat with his blades carefully leaned against the wall beside him. Out of the way, but in easy reach. The food was hot. Not the best, but still worlds better than the travel fare Geralt survived off of. The ale was watery and bitter, but it was better than nothing. 

Slowly the tavern began to fill as the lunch crowd began to descend upon the establishment, but from his shadowed corner, Geralt managed to avoid the attention of most of the new patrons. None of the entering faces stood out from the crowd. Farmers escaping the heat of the day. Merchants coming in to haggle over prices. A few girls selling their wares. All in dulled shades of lighter and darker grey, covered in the dust of daily country life with the soft tang of salty sweat. The witcher returned to his meal, before the door burst open with a bang and a young man came strutting into the room.

His every action screamed look at me! From his practical saunter into the room to his loud voice calling out for the tavern keeper. Every inch of him oozed drama and overindulgence and performance. He wanted very eye in the room on him, and he did not simply ask for them. He demanded. The most stunning part of him was not any of these aspects though. No, the most stunning part was the deep blue of his entire outfit. In a room full of shades of grey he stood out like an oasis in the desert. As if designed to match his outfit, a pair of the most stunningly clear blue eyes seemed to twinkle from his beaming face. A man who knew few could look away from him, especially if they could see the color blue. His flagrant display of his eye color was a practical banner waving towards any who could see the color. A beacon for his soulmate. A man who knew no shame. Soulmates were treasured, but to broadcast like this was near unheard of. The lute slung over his back declared his profession to all who gazed upon him and suddenly both his semi scandalous clothing and attitude made sense. A bard. Geralt snorted lowly in the back of his throat before returning to the last of his meal. The man might have blue eyes, but no human like him would ever have a witcher for a soulmate. 

Yet despite his adamant refusal to humor any thoughts or hopes about the ridiculous man, Geralt found his eyes quickly returning to the bright streak of blue as the man pranced around the room before pulling his lute out. His voice was slightly high still, holding a few traces of boyhood, but not unpleasant to listen to. He went through a few standard tavern songs while the rest of the tavern continued to ignore him. A typical bard. Nothing special. Geralt once more turned back to his food. Idiot witcher, what was he even thinking. 

Once more, as if to draw the witcher’s attention back the second it drifted, the bard started to pluck an unfamiliar tune on the lute. Not a well known tavern song. The bard had guts to pull an original song out of his pocket. Well, the kid had guts. The gentle conversations throughout the tavern slowly came to a halt as eyes began to fall on the bard. 

“You think you are safe  
Without a care  
But here in Posada  
You’d be wise to beware”

The bard slowly began to sing his personalized song. Clearly he had balls to not only pull out an original song, but one specifically about this town. 

“The pike with the spike  
that lurks in your drawers  
or the flying drake   
that will fill you with horror”

The word was drawn out emphasizing the clear beauty of the man’s voice. He was young, but talented. He might actually make something of himself. If he learned when a crowd wanted an original song and when well used and known songs were better. The people in this tavern had not come for a performance. They had come to have lunch and discuss business. The man had talent but no observation skills. A skilled fool. After the quick strumming of a few chords, something changed subtly in the bard’s face. His eyes continued to twinkle and dance, but with a hint of mischief thrown into the mix.

“Need old Nan the Hag  
to stir up a potion”

Oh there was no denying the spark of humor and fun in those eyes now. Geralt could already feel a sinking in his gut. This was going to go badly. Very badly. Every muscle in his arms began to tighten. The tension traveling up into his shoulders and chest. What did he care about a foolish idiot looking for trouble. The bard seemed to know this was not going to go well, and was purposefully instigating it. This was no concern of the witcher what the daft fool did or had happen to him because of it. Yet . . . the tension remained throughout the witcher’s shoulders. It had to be due to a potential bar fight leading towards anger at him. Yes . . . that had to be the reason. 

“so that your lady  
may get an abortion!”

The fool didn’t even have the common sense to mumble the more unacceptable parts of his song. No. The bard decided that was the time to raise his voice. An absolute fool.

And yet . . . “Abort yourself” followed by a dark flash as a piece of bread goes hurtling towards the bard makes all of the tension right back to Geralt’s shoulders. The bard begins to hunch over and stumble away from the center of the room as a storm of flying bread descends on him. 

The idiot doesn’t take this as his clue to be quiet and slink away though. No. He continues to gesticulate wildly and demand the eyes remain on him even as hatred is thrown his way. The little bastard doesn’t bite his tongue and cower away. No. he fires right back with those wild and free gestures. They might be bringing hate and scorn down upon him but the bard refuses to give an inch. “I’m so glad that I could bring you together like this.”

An idiotic fool and a little shit. A dangerous combination. 

A fiery spark amongst the sea of grey not only in his clothes but in his attitude and spirit. A short scoff. A mutter towards those who scorned him to show his own scorn right back. The bard then moves to pick up the bread scattered across the floor. Slowly filling his pockets with his “earnings”. A wall that pushes right back against those who try to throw him and then a concession to their hatred in the next. A ball of contradictions this bard. Demanding the eyes of the room to only incur their wrath. Prideful yet with a sense of practicality. 

Oh fuck. As he’s staring at the young man grabbing his profits, those flashing blue eyes look up and meet his. Across the room. Through the shadows of his corner. Their eyes meet. No. No. No. That spark of mischief comes right back to those stunning spots of blue. This was not going to go well. Geralt scowled and quickly turned away. Nip this in the bud right now. He was not here to entertain stupid idiotic bard’s who go looking for trouble. 

The splash of blue stands out starkly in the corner of his eye as it weaves its way through the crowd towards the witcher’s table. A promise of blue among shades of grey. But it wasn’t Geralt’s promise. No, this blue was a promise for someone else and it needed to leave him alone. The blue stops its approach several feet from his table and there is a small second of hope. This situation could be avoided-

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” whelp, that hope was useless. The bard needed to leave and he needed to leave now. Stop this. Send this promise on his way to whoever he belonged to. 

“I’m here to drink alone.” Good. Nice and cold. This bard had just been dissed by the whole tavern, he wouldn’t stick around for another dismissal. 

“Good. Yeah. Good.” Geralt silently cursed himself as an idiot. This was the bard who had pushed right back against the villagers. Silence would have been the way to make the man disappear. Any insult was seen only as a challenge. 

“No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except . . .” The man was moving closer now. Taking a seat at the larger man’s table. The shades of grey in Geralt’s vision were slowly being filled with the vision of blue as the young man settled in front of him. 

“. . . for you. Come on.” Silence. Silence would make him go away. This man demanded attention and if he didn’t get any he would leave. 

“You don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.” Silence. Ignore him. The blue would leave as it always did. 

“You must have some review for me. Three words or less.” The hands continue to be in motion. This vision of blue that never stops. Never quiets. Never stills. Twinkling blue eyes staring into his. Never looking away. A constant invitation. Now with the bard closer. The most startling part of him hits Geralt’s senses. The bard’s scent had been lost in the general haze of the room. But here, across the table, there is no mistaking it. The bard smells of chamomile and the dust of the road. Expected of a man living his life, but not what drew Geralt’s attention. No, the stunning part of the bard’s scent was the lack of fear. This man was not scared of Geralt. Not even a little. 

“Three words or less.” 

Silence. Silence. Silence. “They don’t exist.” The words seem to flow from his mouth without his permission. Now, the bard was never going to leave. 

Those eyes light up while his whole face expresses confusion. This man feels one emotion and it seems to consume his entire being. “What don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your song.” The least Geralt could do was fill this conversation with as much scorn as he possibly could. Not that derision had scared the bard away before. 

“And how would you know?” Oh . . . that one line shouldn’t have hit Geralt as hard as it did. This man wasn’t special. He just didn’t know who he was. The lack of fear wasn’t a sign but a continued reflection of the stupidity of the fool in front of him. 

Yet . . . the fear didn’t come. No acrid burn filled the air to overpower the gentle scent of the bard. “ Oh, fun.” Now, that was a first. No one considered meeting a witcher fun. At least no one sane. 

“White hair. . . big old loner . . . two very . . . very scary looking swords.” Even the mention of the swords didn’t bring fear to the bard. Okay, it seems Geralt couldn’t trust his mouth to keep quiet and make the bard leave, so he would remove himself from the situation. “I know who you are!” The witcher grabbed the aforementioned scary looking swords and began to make his way towards the door. Surely the bard wouldn’t follow a witcher out into the wilds. “You’re the witcher. Geralt of Rivia! Called it!” The words followed him out into the light of the day. A parting gift from the bard, and hopefully the last interaction between the two. 

Roach is waiting for him in the yard, and he quickly grasps her reins and begins to make his way out of the town. He was not running. He was NOT. He simply had decided that the company of a certain bard was too irritating to handle anymore and is on his way to find his next contract. The herbalist had mentioned a devil causing a nuisance and paid the witcher to take care of it. The bard was an interesting figure he would happily see never again.

The soft sound of running footsteps brought Geralt’s attention slamming back to the present. The scent of chamomile and dust and excitement both quieted his worries while also raising them. This bard was a bad thorn in the witcher’s side who simply would not go. No, he was not happy to see him and it was silly to think otherwise. No one had ever run after him before, but that did not mean he was happy to see the fool. 

“Ah! Need a hand? I’ve got two.” Silence. Eventually if he wasn’t given attention the bard would leave. Like a needy puppy. “One for each of the, uh, devil’s horns. I won’t be but silent back up” Don’t snort. Don’t snort. That would be positive attention and that will only encourage him, but the thought of this man being silent for more than a minute was hilarious. Geralt had known him for less than two hours, talked to him for only five and even then the thought was ludicrous. 

“I heard your note, and yes, you’re right, maybe real adventures would make better stories.” Oh no. Geralt did not like where this was going. He was not sticking around. Silence and he would leave. Yes, that would work. “And you, sir, smell chock-full of them. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion?” At least the commentary was entertaining if unceasing. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny.” This man could hold an entire conversation with himself. He filled in for the silence even without Geralt’s speaking. “Heroics and heartbreak.” 

“It’s onion.” Stupid. He had now given food to the puppy and it was never going to leave. Despite the commentary being entertaining, it was also annoying. 

“Right, yeah. Yeah. Ooh, I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia,” Oh no. The bard seemed to think he was coming along. That absolutely wasn’t happening. This man clearly had no survival instinct. He sang a song purposefully to anger his audience and then decided following a witcher was good life advice. He would get himself killed. 

“The Butcher of Blaviken!” The iron tang of blood in his mouth and nose. The bright spark of Renfri’s eyes fading. The scream of the villagers. Murderer! Monster! 

Geralt stopped. Roach, the sweet companion that she is instantly complied and stopped with him. The memories flashed through his mind as he turned back to that vision of blue. Blue pants. Blue doublet. Blue eyes. The color blue had only brought pain. “Come here.”

Without even a thought the bard stepped closer. Closer to a killer without even a hint of fear. Geralt’s fist was moving before he even thought the motion through. Striking the bard directly in the stomach, a move designed to knock the breath from him and stop him from following. The sharp gasp was not the only sound to emerge with the movement as Geralt felt his own lips open on a stunned exhale. The world around him exploded in a riot of color. All of the familiars greys melting away to a stunning, blinding force of color he couldn’t even hope to name or describe or categorize. Slowly he glanced down at his clenched fist. His armor had retained the same familiar grey but new tones could be detected among the familiar. One more glance down at the gasping bard as wide blue eyes flew up to meet his. 

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh! Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. to every single person who read that first chapter. I was so uncertain posting it, and I wasn't even certain I would ever come back and finish it. But then I saw all of you, and read all of your comments and here is the next chapter. Thank you all! This would not exist without you


	3. Chapter 3

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Geralt stared in mounting horror as his entire vocabulary seemed to shrink to only one word. The entire world was a riot of colors he couldn’t even hope to begin to describe. Swirling shades of brightness that assaulted the witcher’s eyes. None of these legends mention how dizzying the experience would be. The only constant in his world was the familiar shades of blue. The twinkling azure of the sky that always watched over him. A few flowers winking from within the blinding new colors of the grass. The stunning blue of the bard’s eyes.

The bard. Fuck.

“well…. This is quite the development.” The bard seemed slightly shaky as he got to his feet, but his mouth was already running a mile a minute while his charming smile began to spread across his face. No. No. No. The bard wasn’t charming. Nope. Not at all. “Well, dear soulmate, my name is Jaskier, bard extraordinaire.” The young man begins gesturing wildly with his hands while he lowered his torso into a dramatic sweeping bow.

There’s a slight pause as those cornflower blue eyes continue to stare expectantly up at Geralt. Waiting for his name. Well, the bard would have to be waiting for awhile. Geralt was not interested in this whole dog and pony show. It was not going to happen. “If you don’t provide me a name, I’ll just have to come up with one for you myself,” that little shit wouldn’t dare. Of course, Geralt was conveniently forgetting this was the same man who had decided to piss off his audience simply because they were ignoring him. “Nicknames it is!” The bard, Jaskier, sing songs out before taking a breath to begin his next tirade-

“You said my name five minutes ago. I don’t need to introduce myself.” Geralt bit out looking at this ridiculous fop of a man that was supposed to be his soulmate. Was the little shit purposefully antagonizing a man that could break him in half with a look? He couldn’t be that stupid . . . right?

“Nah, that wouldn’t be any fun, would it? No. No. No. If you don’t introduce yourself properly like a civilized man, then nicknames it will be!” The man didn’t even have the decency to pretend to be afraid of the glare the witcher sent his way.

At Geralt’s continued silence and withering glare, the bard – Jaskier – jumped right into his next tirade, “Well there’s the very simple ‘Soulmate’, but I feel that might be too simple. You’re not just any soulmate are you? Nah Nah Nah, we need something grand, something striking, something glorious, something noble, something magnificent. How about, my one true promise? Nah, that’s too ostentatious. Ooooooh, what about, Light of my Life? Get it . . .” at this point the bard has sidled up to the larger man and nudges him in the arm, “because you brought the _light_ to my life?” At this point the man’s grin was swallowing his entire face, and it only seemed to grow bigger at the witcher’s glare.

“Ah, still not to your liking I see. Object of my affection? Angelface? My darling? My one and only? My main man? My dearest one? My darling? My dear? My deary? . . . ” Gods, would he ever shut up? The bard was just rambling off whatever came to mind, whether it made sense or not did not seem to be of importance to him. As the bard’s words continued to fill the air around them, rambling every different version of ‘sweet’ he could think of, Geralt found the dizzying swirl of color begin to slow down slightly. The overwhelming brightness fading behind the figure in blue with the bright blue eyes and the running mouth. “Honeybunch? Pooh Bear? . . . Soulmatey Chum Chum-“

“Geralt. My name is Geralt. As if you didn’t know that” The words rumble out of the witcher’s mouth in a vain attempt to stop the torrent of words before the bard came up with an even worse nickname. Oh no, if the witcher had thought for even a moment that the snapped response would get rid of the pest, he was sorely mistaken. The bright flash of white teeth got even more impossibly wide, and those cornflower blue eyes seemed to twinkle and glow with a strange happiness as they stared at the white haired man. The other colors fading into the background of the stunning blue Geralt couldn’t take his eyes off.

“Seeeeeeeeeee,” the bard drawled the word out to a ridiculous degree as he leaned close to the witcher once more, “that wasn’t so hard was it. Hmmmmm. . . Geralt. I like it. Good and strong. And manly-“ at this point the bard danced forward to wrap his hands briefly around Geralt’s bicep. The absolute dancing delight in the bard’s eyes. The scent of flowers, and earth, and dust and horse and still not a smidgeon of fear. The burning brand of a touch he shouldn’t feel through the layers of armor and yet he does. The sharp ringing of laughter that should grate on sensitive ears yet doesn’t as the hands are quickly shoved off.

If Geralt thought the rebuke would stop the bard he was once more mistaken. The bard made no more moves to touch the witcher, but his mouth did not stop moving once. “Geralt. GERALT. _Geralt._ **Geralt.** Gggggggeeeeeerrrrrraaaallllltttttttt. Hmm. Yes, I think I like the way that sounds. There’s something about how it sits on the tongue. A pleasant taste to it, don’t you think?” The bard didn’t even pretend to wait for a response from his companion before continuing on, “ Of course, as it’s your own name you don’t treasure it properly. Geralt of Rivia. The Rivian. Witcher extraordinaire. Geralt.”

Geralt turned to face the road in front of him. Drawing his eyes away from that figure in blue, but the brightness of the world ahead didn’t seem to hold quite the same chaos it had a minute ago. “Geralt of RIVIA. The Witcher Geralt. The great witcher. The white witcher. . .” This contract had just become a lot longer than when Geralt had set out, and yet with the promise of blue hovering in the corner of his eye, Geralt couldn’t summon the level of annoyance he usually would have.

“Let’s go, Roach.” A witcher and his horse moved down the narrow dirt road as they had many times before, but with a new figure in blue following not far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. . . I seriously struggled with this chapter, and have gotten nowhere near what I wanted done, but this seemed like a good stopping point, so have 1000 words of Jaskier being a little shit. I probably won't have another chapter out as soon as before as I'll be going through and editing and cleaning up the previous chapters. I have a tendency to just say fuck it and post as soon as I'm done before I lose my nerve, but a fantastic friend is helping me beta. Three cheers for him!
> 
> Once more, thank you all for the support, kudos and comments. I treasure every one.


	4. Chapter 4

“Reading between the lines and the lovely gut punch, thank you for that by the way! But then I guess we would never have realized this bountiful swirl of color now would we? And what a crime that would be! Oh the songs I can write about them. Who knew the world had some many boundless shades?!? Ah, but I’m getting off track once more! You, my dear soulmate, would appear to have an image problem.”

The bard had not shut up for the entire thirty minute journey to the local farms on the outskirts. Not once. Nope. He just kept his mouth running and running and running. “My gut quite remembers your distaste Were I to join you on this feat to defeat the devil of Posada, I could relieve you of that title. All the north would be too busy singing the tales of Geralt of Rivia!” By this point the bard was gesticulating wildly with his arms once more. The man did nothing subtly, seeming to use every moment of his existence to draw everyone’s gaze towards himself.

“You could be . . .” the first words of the sentence were spoken with great grandeur as if the following words were of great importance, but the bard seemed to have not thought them up quite yet. He floundered for a moment, arms moving much faster than his brain as he gestured dramatically for a moment as he scrambled for words.

Typical . . . even a fop such as this man. A man who apparently never ran out of words. A man who made his living by this very skill. Bu, most importantly, the man who was supposed to be Geralt’s perfect match. An even he, with all of his skills and words, couldn’t find a positive way to describe the witcher. No, even to his soulmate, Geralt remained an unparalleled monster. No flowery words would ever cover his mutant deformities.

“The White Wolf! . . . or something . . . Oh! Don’t look at me like that! I know It’s not my best day, but you will have to be a little forgiving. I do have a little more on my mind!”

Geralt simply gives an unimpressed stare at the figure in blue that would not go way despite his obvious disgust and disappointment. Who could want a witcher for a soulmate?

“I mean, look at all these colors! They are a bit distracting, you know. I’ve been told my whole life that grass is green, but what does that actually mean? How could that simple word. Five characters. Four letters. But how could it do justice to this color? Look at it! Green, they say, but already my head is running through all the other ways to describe it! They say green is jealousy, but is jealousy this vibrant color of growth and life? Are these multiple facets of the same shade? What other shades of green are there? I can’t even name half of these colors, so _excuse_ me for not being at my most eloquent!”

The bard settled once more, walking beside Roach with an easy gait, but he didn’t stop rambling on, “Not that the colors are the only distracting thing . . . no. no. no. You, my good sir, are by far the most distracting part of this whole situation. Every person dreams about their soulmate, but to find out its you!” At this point the bard stopped and gestured up and down at the witcher atop his horse. “Those eyes! That hair!” As if it wasn’t bad enough that Geralt knew his many flaws and monstrous qualities, his soulmate just had to go and point them out. Geralt didn’t need his one promise of love highlighting all the reasons the promise was false. All the reasons Geralt was unwanted. “Those arms! Those thighs! . . . that ass . . .” Jaskier was growing quieter and quieter as he continued down his list as if he didn’t want the witcher to hear it. Of course, his inhuman soulmate heard every word. Another nail in the coffin for how poor of a fit the bard and the witcher were.

As if shrugging off the topic, Jaskier immediately jumped to a new subject. Fate had spurned the poor man with his soulmate, so Geralt couldn’t even hold his disgust against him. The man moved closer to roach stretching out one of his constantly moving hands towards her, “Mind if I hop up? I’m not wearing the right footwear. These shoes are the definition of high class, and any man who looks upon them should absolutely swoon at their glory, buuuuuuuut, they are not designed for long journeys full of adventure and intrigue!”

At this the bard finished his reach to set his hand upon Roach’s rump. Hands settling into the short shining coat of his only friend. No one touched Roach. Geralt’s one companion. The rest of the world might hate him, but Roach never would.

“Don’t touch Roach!” The words burst from the witcher with a frenzy rarely exhibited by the witcher. Roach was his. His one companion. His one friend. His one constant.

The figure in blue stumbled back in a flash, hands pulling close to his chest. The air soured slightly with a bite of pain and fear as the bard pulled away. “Yeah, right, yeah.” As if the bard didn’t realize how large of a trick fate had played on him until this moment. His soulmate was a monster without any idea of how to be soft and gentle. This man radiated a life of ease and pleasantness, and a witcher was a total stranger to that. Jaskier was softness and light and laughter and he had no place here. Soon the bard would realize this, even if he held true to the romance of soulmates. Roach had to remain apart from him. He would leave with his laughter and chatter, and Roach would remain. The horse would remain as she always would, and she would need to not remind the witcher of the soulmate who left. Roach was his one comfort and friend; she would have to remain separate from the fleeting promise of the figure in blue.

If Geralt had thought the brief snap would finally chase his chattering shadow away, he was once more to be shocked by the smaller man. “Right, Mr. Soumatey, no touching the horse. That’s all good. I can walk. Got two good strong legs on me! Though my feet might stage a revolt with my ruined gorgeous non-walking shoes as their backup. Wouldn’t that be just the story, a bard killed by his own shoes. The lute might be more poetic, but she would never turn on me,” at this point the bard gently reached back to run his fingers against the lute in a caress. “No the boots are just going to have to suck it up because I plan to stick around until you send me away, no matter the protests of fashionable footwear.”

At this last statement there was a moment of silence, as if for the first time since they started off down the road, the bard was waiting for Geralt to input some comment into the flow of conversation. Along with the pause, the acrid scent of fear grew stronger off the bard. Why would the bard continue to travel with someone who so obviously scared him, even if he hid the fear behind a bright smile and those damned blue eyes. A witcher’s nose did not lie. Geralt opened his mouth to send the man away. Jaskier, his promise of blue, but that couldn’t be right. No, even from the brief time Geralt had known him, he knew he was destined for much more than a butcher. The false promise of blue that burned his eyes while the fear burned his nose.

As the silence continued, the scent of fear began to fade until it was gone completely. Real joy shining behind those eyes. “Right Then!” the bard began chattering away once more, rambling about the history of the valley and trying to draw Geralt into guessing which color each flower was. The air once more smelled of the fresh grass, the dust of the road, and the sweat of a horse.

__________________________________________

“Geralt? Geralt! Where are you going?” Jaskier’s voice rose to an even higher volume as the witcher swung down from Roach’s saddle. Without even a glance, the white haired man headed off down the gently twisting path. His feet glided above the ground as he moved with the easy grace of long practice. A hunter stalking his prey with no sound to warn them before the strike.

Of course this was a pointless exercise borne from habit as the bard continued to follow, voice ringing out, echoing through the canyon. Bags catching on every branch and scraping against every stone. Steps echoing around them adding the instrumentation to the ringing of his voice. “Where are you going? D-Don’t leave me!” Who was this contradiction of a man who seemed to be afraid of the witcher one moment and then running to him for protection the next? Either one made this entire task more complicated as any sound from the monster haunting the place was obscured by the cacophony of the man behind him. Hearing would be useless, but that wasn’t the only sense a witcher could use to identify his prey.

Geralt narrowed his eyes and sent them scanning over the revealed landscape. Large craggy rocks catching shadows. The dancing dappling of light created by the gentle sway of leaves in the breeze.

“Hello?!?” Could the fool paint a larger target on his back? The quick glare in his direction and maybe the idiot would get the message.

With a soft smile, the bard whispered back with a force that caused even the hushed voice to echo off the walks. “What are we looking for again?”

“Blessed silence.” Maybe the bard would get it now and hush.

Nope. No as if to purposefully scorn the witcher his voice returned to its full volume, “yeah, I don’t really go in for that sort of thing.” Understatement of the century. “have you hunted a devil before?”

“Devils don’t exist.” Why was he answering this man? Geralt berated himself in his head for getting distracted, and yet couldn’t seem to stop his mouth from forming answer after answer to the foolish man.

“Right, obviously. I clearly knew that. Common knowledge. Then, uh, what are we doing here?”

Geralt turned to glance back at those bright blue clothes and blue eyes, as his mouth once more ran off, “ Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s money. Rarely both.” The dark brows drew in tight as a frown started to darken the bright face. “That’s the life.” Better to end any ideas of romanticism here. The life of a witcher was no place for a bard full of light and laughter. Geralt would finish this job, head back to town, and hopefully never see the foppish man again.

The sharp sting of something small and sharp hitting his forehead stopped Geralt’s thoughts in its tracks as he once more focused on the task at hand. There was a monster and he foolishly was getting distracted. This is why witchers didn’t do soulmates. A second of hesitation or lack of focus was all that stood between a witcher and death.

Of course, unlike any sane being, the bard decided this was the time to paint an even larger target on his back, “Shit! Act two begins! What was that? Looked like a small little cannonball. Oh my Gosh! Geralt it is a devil!” Even as the man began to realize there was a monster and the smell of fear once more filled the air, he did not stop talking or move away. No the fool stood tall staring it down.

“I have to see this magical, this mythic-” The words cut off with a sharp sound as a small dark flash hurtled through the air towards the bard. A flash of deep color upon his forehead. A deep color that could only be the red of blood. Though, Geralt had never seen it before, there was no doubt. The flash of red blood on the clean pale skin and those blue eyes slipped closed as the bard fell backwards. Once more the acrid burn of fear filled the air, but this time it did not come from the bard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all once more for all the comments and kudos. They are greatly appreciated. Poor emotionally repressed Geralt just has his emotions all over the place and has no idea what to do with his new companion.


End file.
